


Day Breaks So Sweet

by robocryptid



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Morning Cuddles, Morning Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-17 23:41:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19965148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robocryptid/pseuds/robocryptid
Summary: She cherishes nothing but this: waking up warm in a pool of sunlight, Sombra in her arms. Sombra shaking apart under her hands, then relaxing against her, as close to soft, to vulnerable, to trusting, as it’s possible for her to get.





	Day Breaks So Sweet

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Since I am sometimes asked: you have my blanket permission to podfic, translate or remix my stuff, make fan art, make fanmixes, etc. -- basically anything that qualifies as transformative works! You don't have to ask me. The only thing I do ask is that you share it with me, because I wanna see/hear/read it! 
> 
> What you do not have permission to do is wholesale copy and repost my fic to a different platform, such as a third-party app that profits from free fan labor. If you are reading this on an app like that, I assure you AO3's website on mobile is perfectly robust, allows downloads of fics for offline reading, has a [dark mode skin](https://archiveofourown.org/skins/929), and isn't trying to scam you by offering premium services that change nothing.#
> 
> \--
> 
> I just really wanted some soft morning sex. uwu
> 
> Big thank you to [Theoroark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theoroark/works) for the beta!

#

There is little about her life to cherish. She has survived. She will continue to do so. She doesn’t go hungry. She has access to any comforts she needs. 

She can act how she pleases, within the limits, and she has no desire left to stretch those limits, not so long as this life also gives her the thrill of the hunt — the rare experience of feeling something vibrant to break the numbness. But she doesn’t cherish that either. She suspects she could get it elsewhere, if she had the impetus to look. 

But this. She thinks this could be something like it. 

The sun filters in through the gauzy curtains of her bedroom, and it hits the side of the bed they’re on, curled up like cats in the warmest spot. Sombra’s warm too, shifting in her arms. It’s uncertain whether she’s awake, but the sun in her eyes means she won’t be able to stay that way much longer. 

Widow presses closer against her, the tip of her nose brushing along the nape of Sombra’s neck. Errant curls, frizzy after a humid day and a long night, tickle her face until she has to push Sombra’s hair aside. She arranges it carefully so it spills over Sombra’s shoulder and down across her collarbone, then she lays her hand to rest along Sombra’s ribs. 

She brushes her lips over the purple ridges of the implants that cover Sombra’s spine, and she smirks when Sombra’s hips shimmy backward. It could be reflex. Could be something she’s doing in her sleep. But they’ve woken up like this too many times for Widow to believe that. 

Still Widow says nothing. There’s nothing _to_ say, and it would give away the game to speak aloud that they both know Sombra’s wide awake. 

She slips her hands under the hem of Sombra’s tank top, soft cotton skimming her knuckles as she brushes her fingertips across warm skin. Sombra squirms again so that it’s easier for Widow to move the arm beneath her. Easier to scoop a breast into each hand, thumbs sweeping across her nipples and the skin-heated metal bars that decorate them. 

Widow loves the feel of them, of soft skin and heavy breasts, each just too big for one hand even with her fingers spread wide. Sombra likes it as much as she does; they’re sensitive enough that Widow’s gotten her off just playing with them. It doesn’t look like it’s going to be one of _those_ mornings, but Sombra’s still breathing more loudly and pushing into her hands, back arching so her ass nudges back into the cradle of Widow’s hips. 

Widow wedges a thigh between hers in response, and Sombra’s hands rise to meet hers. Widow indulges herself a little longer, letting Sombra guide her hands across her smooth skin. She squeezes gently, and she thinks about rolling Sombra over to get her mouth on them. Then Sombra’s pushing one of her hands down, and that thought falls by the wayside. 

Widow’s fingers skim down Sombra’s stomach, which hitches and trembles beneath her hand. Distractedly, almost idly, she plucks at a nipple with her other hand, while this one slips down to cup Sombra between her legs. It’s still outside her clothing, and Widow drags her fingers slowly and whisper-light over cotton panties that have already begun to soak through. 

Sombra’s hand clutches hers, presses her palm down harder, and Widow stops moving her fingers altogether. 

“Tease,” Sombra mutters.

“Impatient,” Widow says right back, lips moving against her neck. Then she pinches Sombra’s nipple, gets her short nails around the bar there and twists just a little, and Sombra arches again with a breathless-sounding laugh. 

“Mean.” Sombra’s voice says she’s smiling even through the accusation, but her grip goes lax again, and so Widow’s fingers begin to move again. 

She rubs gently, gradually increasing the pressure of her fingertips until Sombra’s hips are shifting restlessly, little rocking motions like she can’t quite help herself. Then Widow’s fingers slip beneath the band, skim through short, tidy hair and down over slippery, velvety skin. 

She doesn’t breach yet, only spreads the slickness on the tips of her fingers. Sombra’s face turns toward hers, a hand reaching behind and finding Widow’s hair. She nuzzles Sombra’s cheek and mouths along her jaw and wedges her thigh more firmly between Sombra’s to keep her legs wide. 

Widow slides wet fingers up and around Sombra’s clit before she finally dips two inside. They slip back out and up, circle closer to the clit, then back down again, and again, smearing slick everywhere until Sombra’s hips and thighs are twitching, her hand curling harder into Widow’s hair. 

Finally Widow chooses to show mercy, fingers sliding in again and pumping rhythmically. Sombra grinds into the heel of Widow’s hand where it’s pressed hard against her.

Sombra is ferociously independent. Protective of herself and difficult to pry open. Widow doesn’t mind. She understands, mostly, and she leaves Sombra to her business unless she is invited in. But the sounds she makes like this always make Widow second guess that wisdom. 

They’re breathy and high, and there’s something vulnerable about them. As if she’s been injured and needs to be cared for. It’s almost sweet, if that was a word that could apply to either of them. 

Widow hooks her chin over Sombra’s shoulder, glancing down her body at the breast still heavy in her hand, a dark nipple caught between gleaming metal and Widow’s fingers.

Then Sombra’s legs tremble and try to clamp shut, her body curling away from Widow’s. Widow only curls with her, right at her back as she coaxes her through a trembling orgasm. There’s hair in both their faces, growing damp with heavy, humid breaths, but Widow doesn’t mind.

When Sombra’s shivering thighs part again, Widow carefully pulls her fingers free, and for a moment she simply holds her, feels the expansion and contraction of Sombra’s ribs as her breathing slows again. 

Widow has very few attachments to the world around her. She has no possessions she would care about losing. Nothing she can’t replace. Even her name, her family home, the tattoos with which she has marked her body — these help tether her to a reminder of who she was and who she could become, but she doesn’t _feel_ them. 

She cherishes nothing but this: waking up warm in a pool of sunlight, Sombra in her arms. Sombra shaking apart under her hands, then relaxing against her, as close to soft, to vulnerable, to trusting, as it’s possible for her to get. 

Sombra turns in her arms then, pushing Widow onto her back, and she leans over her, hair tumbling over her shoulder and strands sticking to her cheek as she smirks down at Widow. “Good morning,” she says with a voice still husky from sleep. 

“Good morning.” Widow gives into the urge to push Sombra’s hair off her face.

Sombra wastes no time slipping her hand between Widow’s legs. There is no way to explain to anyone else how Widow knows that Sombra calculates everything she does; they wouldn’t want to know about the single-minded and devastating way she returns the favor, fingers quick and deft and precision-tuned to Widow’s body.

When it is finished, and Widow’s limbs still feel almost uncomfortably light, Sombra weighs her down by pressing close, nose tucking under Widow’s jaw and into the side of her neck. They lie together quietly, breathing slow and steady as if they might drift off again, though they are both alert this time. 

Widow quietly wills the seconds to pass more slowly, tells her body to ignore the quietly growing hunger. She cherishes so few things, but she wants what she _does_ cherish to last as long as it can.


End file.
